


Honest pay for an honest job

by DarthSuki



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Miqo'te Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Multi, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2020-01-01 07:14:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18331184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarthSuki/pseuds/DarthSuki
Summary: You're an immigrant to the continent of Eorzea, looking for work where there was little where you came from. You settle in Gridania in the hopes that you'll be able to find a job, but quickly realize that most folk aren't too kind to outsiders. In desperation you travel to Quarrymill, but along the way you meet a rather peculiar miqo'te named Samilen Jawantal. He is sweet, though a little awkward, and helps you find a place for yourself in the settlement.It just so happens that you two become friends along the way.





	Honest pay for an honest job

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this partially because I wanted to develop the character of my WoL, and partially because he's gotten rather popular with people. Several were interested in reading about some of his shenanigans so I thought to myself 'why not make it a reader insert?'
> 
> And so I did ;3c Please let me know if you like my boy, and especially if you'd like to read more about him~
> 
> [Also, feel free to check out his information, backstory and lots of screenshots over on his tumblr blog!](https://samilenjawantal.tumblr.com/)

When warned that the Black Shroud could be difficult to navigate, you assumed it came only from a place of misunderstanding. The guards who had offered such cautious words saw you as but a newcomer to the lands of Eorzea--and likely assumed everywhere would be hard to navigate. Though it may be true that you'd been on the land for only a scant few weeks before venturing outside the city of Gridania, you're certainly no child--how confusing could it be to find your way around?

In short: extremely.

The Black Shroud was not named such without reason. It felt very much like a shroud of trees hanging over you, being hard to navigate and harder still when there wasn’t any sunlight to keep the path visible. It felt very much like a maze. Everything from the trees to even the animals seemed happy to taunt you at every step.

From the main city-state of Gridania, the small town of Quarrymill didn't seem very far. A full day of walking at most, since you couldn't afford a chocobo porter or had the luck to come upon a passing wagon. 

Of course, a day of waking seemed naught of risks when planning it from behind safe walls and surrounded by multitudes of people. 

You're edging on terrified. The sun is perhaps only an hour from dipping out of the sky and leaving the Black Shroud very fitting of its name--already you've lost sight of the dirt path once beneath your feet, and with darkness closing in you'll have even less a chance to find it.

All you wanted to do was look for work. 

It's why you came to Eorzea in the first place, as you wanted no game or overwhelming fortune, no recognition beyond a pocketful of gill to earn you a pillow beneath your head and food in your belly. Be it fate or sheer dumb luck, your heart couldn’t bare the thought of getting caught in such a dismal situation after working so hard to get here.

There’s a map rolled up and hidden somewhere in the bag slung over your shoulder, but it’s long-since lost usefulness to someone who can scarcely read it. It wouldn’t matter anyway as direction is not the issue at hand--all you’ve got is to follow the southern pathway--it’s your speed that bothers you the most. A couple wrong turns had cost almost two full hours. If you’re lucky and keep a swift pace you may get to Quarrymill sometime after dark, but…

There’s little use thinking about it. You’re beyond the point of being able to turn around.

The noises of the forest have almost become pleasant. From the insects to the wind and trees to the animals hiding out of sight, it’s almost like white noise. Considering that you had been listening to it since the first footfall outside of Gridania’s main gate, it doesn’t take very long for you to realize a new sound drifting through the air.

It’s odd enough to give you pause, actually stopping yourself so that your ears have no extra footsteps to listen past--and yes, there it is, a sudden noise differing from the others. It’s off to the right of the path a ways, distant in the way that all forest noises are but close enough that you feel compelled to get closer.

A man? You think it’s the voice of a man echoing between the trees, but it’s hard to be certain if what you’re hearing is cries of anguish or something else completely--and you have already heard a plethora of odd noises proven rather innocent in but your first several days in Gridania. It only takes one time to mistake the shrill cry of a opo-opo as a young child for you to learn that the forests are not to be underestimated nor disrespected.

Even so, the noise lingers for long enough that your feet start to move before your brain has time to think the decision over. By the time you’re off the trail and quickly stepping around various rocks and underbrush, the noise has shifted ever so subtly so that you can make out words.

“For Twelvessake,” you hear the voice echo through the air. “Stop shaking! You’re not gonna make this any easier on ‘ya by moving around like that.”

You get nearer to the source, keeping far from the swing of low-laying branches as you push them out of your way. A couple of them still hit you regardless.

“You know I’m helpin’ you, just….stay still….”

The voice gets clearer in as many moments as it takes footsteps before you finally catch the source in your vision. There’s a small break in the trees, not so much a clearing but a small patch of land where none seem to grow outside of thick grass and moss covering small rocks. 

You stop off the edge of the trees, feeling a burn in your lungs from the running and a curiosity swimming in your mind. This would be the first person you’ve met after hours along the trail--perhaps they may be able to aid you in some way.

A treant stands tall in the center of the clearing. The beast is mighty in size, but not nearly as large as you imagined they could be from the stories murmured by the Gridanian guards. It stand at but the height of a man and a half, it’s form reminiscent of a tree that has uprooted itself and begun to walk about. Its limbs are long and many in number, face almost indiscernible from the bark-like texture of its body. 

Perhaps this one is young? You know too little to be sure, though your eyes flick to the next thing to catch your attention before an answer seems important enough to consider.

There’s a man tangled in the treant’s branches, a man whose voice rings out as the very one you were following but a scant few seconds before. He seems to be reaching for something, an item also tangled well within the leaves and vines that must make up part of the creature’s body. 

You find yourself staring at the scene for a few moments before you realize that the item is a net; the mesh is thick and broken in places, but a piece of trash tossed aside by some careless hunter. 

It seems to make movement difficult for the young treant, something that the man seems keen to change despite the fact that he too seems almost as entangled in branches and vines of the creature’s upper form.

You have heard poachers were common in the Black Shroud. You heard talk about them amongst several of the guards, often with venom lacing their words, but had the luck not to run into one just yet--the forest alone seemed to be intimidating enough without a morally-dubious individual in your way making things worse.

You take a few steps closer and manage to catch a steady glimpse of the man, enough to realize that he’s a Miqo’te and, if going by his hair and complexion, a Keeper of the Moon.  

In fact, if it wasn’t for his long silvery hair, you wouldn’t even be able to make out the shape of him dangling in the treant’s branches.

He reaches out, fingertips just barely curling around a few threads of the net, and tugs a part of it free. The creature seems to offer a bittersweet cry of relief, leading to the Miqo’te finally being able to crawl closer to the object of it’s disdain and more properly begin untangling it.

It takes only a minute or two once he had a proper reach, and you merely watch as the broken mess falls in a heap to the ground, followed quickly by the much more elegant thump of the man as he lands in a crouch and all but glares at the object in obvious disgust.

The treant shows only the barest of thanks in simply not attacking the man, instead waddling off with heavy footsteps deeper into the thickets of the forest.

“Now I have to haul this thing to Quarrymill,” the Miqo’te mutters to himself, one hand dragging over his face, the other perched on his hip. “Just fuckin’ fantastic. I’m a botanist, not a-.”

The snap of a twig beneath one of your feet silences any words following, and instead catches his attention with the quickness of a lightning bolt. 

His face turns instantly towards you, eyes wide for a moment in shock as his thoughts seem to catch up with the revelation that he is not the only person in the clearing. Not alone at all.

You expect him to say something to you, perhaps even laugh and ask something like ‘what are you doing here?’. You expect nothing specific in all honesty, but you at least ready yourself for some sort of question from him.

You get none.

For all that you heard him cursing up a storm but a few moments before the man is now discernibly more quiet, not a single noise falling from his lips even though it’s obvious you took him by surprise.

At least you’re able to get a better look at the man now that he’s not buried in branches and leaves. 

He’s short, at least for a man, with a dark complexion that reminds you much of a shadow. His eyes and hair stand in stark contrast however, with the golden hue of his gaze earning the most of your attention. Silvery locks are pulled back into a braid, though the rest of it hands over one side of his face.

The man is dressed well, thick leather jacket probably protecting him from most of the cuts and scratches he’d otherwise have earned from the treant’s branches. He at least lacks much of the armor and gear you’d expect of a poacher, though he’s not nearly geared well enough to be a Gridanian guard of any sort.

“Um,” you find yourself feeling a bit unnerved beneath his gaze. “I’m actually heading to Quarrymill myself and uh--I heard you were going that way yourself, sir?”

He says nothing, though at least now his gaze has left you and falls instead to the pile of broken mesh netting. After enough time that you’re beginning to think that he’s outright forgotten you and your question, he finally turns back to look at you with a perceivably softer look on his face.

And then his hands move.

Not so much in simple gestures, but movements reminiscent of something more; a communication that takes but a few short moments before you realize the motions as handspeak.

It seems a little odd for him to use such a form of nonverbal conversation since you had heard him speak and curse just a few moments ago, but your brain jumps right over the curiosity and instead begins to decipher his words without delay.

_ ‘What’s someone like you doing out here in the forest?’ _ he asks, movements sharp and practiced--indication of experience, fluidity and perhaps even a tinge of annoyance within the words.

You begin to move your hands in answer, but the man quickly shakes his head.

_ ‘You don’t need to do that,’ _ he gestures to his ears as if the notion had been obvious, though a flush of color over his cheeks keep the gesture from seeming too aggravated.  _ ‘I can hear you just fine.’ _

After a moment of continued confusion you finally offer the man your name, trying to be as polite as possible in fear that the very help you sought for would slip between your fingers and, honestly, you did come upon this man a bit suddenly.

“I’m looking for work in Quarrymill,” you explain, hoping such fear would not leak into your words or tone. 

_ ‘Refugee?’ _

“I prefer the word ‘traveler’.”

A twitch of amusement pulls at the corner of the man’s mouth as one of his hand perch on his hip again, stance turning casual.

_ ‘It all means the same to most folk in Eorzea.’ _

The sentiment is honest and nonthreatening, which is admittedly a breath of fresh air when compared to many others you’d spoken with in Gridania. Though you hold little knowledge of the continent’s history or cultural perspective outside of what you’ve heard in your travels into its borders, you know enough that many of her people don’t take kindly to foreign souls--or perhaps that just might be the scarce few in Gridania that a lack of luck forced you to meet.

The man’s eyes linger on you through the thought, golden and heavy in weight--there’s thoughts behind that gaze, ones you can’t hope to decipher. 

_ ‘My name is Samilen,’ _ the man finally signs, spelling his name with deliberate motions to make sure you understand before hurrying on.  _ ‘Consider this your first job offer.’ _

He didn’t need to elaborate for you to understand what he meant by it, having just enough time to understand his words before Samilen turned and started pulling some of the thick netting into his arms. 

You catch a glint of an axe on his back. There’s ornate symbols etched into both the wood of the handle and the wrought-iron metal blade--all of which look foreign to you, but it catches your attention and interest all the same. A woodsman? Did he live out here?

His eyes flash back at you before your thoughts can linger much farther into question, spurring you forward to try and pull the other half of the heap into your arms. 

The netting is scratchy against your hands, biting into your skin by its own weight alone, but it’s easy enough with two people that you can ignore it and focus more on the shuffle of your feet so as not to trip on an errant vine.

“So,” you start, feeling a little awkward in the sudden silence between you and the stranger. “You live around here?”

Samilen looks at you after a moment, one brow perked and lips pursed together.

“I mean, I’m not trying to assume anything,” your words feel like they’re starting to press together, little more than a mush of noise leaving your mouth as you try to fill the air with noise. “Lots of people said Quarrymill was full of jobs for physical labor--in need of lots of building supplies, they said--and I noticed you’ve got an axe and, well, maybe y’know some people and...” 

You almost have to force yourself to stop talking, flashing a gaze and forced smile to the Miqo’te in hopes that you don’t sound as awkward as you feel. Samilen blinks at you after a moment before making a gesture with his arms still holding the net. The movement is muffled, but otherwise able to get the message across as hot embarrassment fills your cheeks.

Of course.

“Ah,” you say, quickly taking the lack of speech from him as something running deeper than mere preference. “Understood. I’ll uh, ask you when we get there.”

You expected for the ‘when’ to be far after the sun had disappeared from the sky and the moon taken its place. If you were being at all honest with yourself, in fact, you would have worried deeply about finding yourself in the forest at night, surrounded by trees and underbrush that you could scarcely navigate during the day.

Samilen didn’t seem to share this same worry as you. 

He paid the setting sun little mind as he directed the both of you onward through the forest, making odd twists and turns against the dirt path--if he didn’t have such a firm, assured look on his face, you would have questioned the man as being as lost as you had been by yourself.

And it’s a good thing you didn’t question him, for as soon as the sun’s last trickles of light hid themselves from the sky you found yourself stepping into the settlement of Quarrymill, among the bustling merchants and other travelers who were also hastily trying to get find safety within it’s tall, sturdy walls.

Even so, Samilen carefully directed the two of you into the small outcropping of homes and stalls, weaving through people and chocobo-drawn carts of goods. 

It isn’t until you’re able to drop the netting beside one of the many merchants’ stands that you realize how sore your arms have grown, muscles aching and burning from the weight, the strands of the mesh having started to dug into your arms that there are marks (however temporary).

You gaze down at the pile. What use could it have for anyone now, you wonder, curious if Samilen had something in mind to make him want to bring it here--or perhaps it was an action out of concern. After all, you had seen the damage the abandoned item had to but one young treant--if the man was indeed a local, a woodsman at that, you can understand why he’d feel obligated to remove the mesh from the forest.

You tune back into the world just as your attention cycles back to Samilen. 

Some fulms away he stands in front of the merchant’s stall where you both had left the net, conversing with a woman on the other side. His expression is soft and his motions languid--there’s familiarity in it, as in the way she regards him in kind.

“Y’know I can’t pay you fer’ it,” the woman says gently, gesturing towards the broken pile of mesh beside her stall. “Ain’t in the business of dealing with junk.”

Samilen smiles widely, as if at some unknown joke between them, and signs something too quick for you to catch.

The merchant laughs makes a waving gesture with her hand towards the net.

“Always makin’ a compelling offer, Jawantal. I guess I can’t say no to somethin’ free.”

It’s only then that the woman’s eyes flash in your direction, interest as obvious as the half-cocked smile over her lips.

“Oy, makin’ new friends are ya?”

Samilen blinks, then looks to you in but a flash of surprise (or perhaps embarrassment?) before realization dawns over his features, seemingly having forgotten you were still standing there.

_ ‘We were both heading to Quarrymill,’ _ he signs after a moment, looking back at the woman.  _ ‘I wasn’t about to carry that thing by myself if I could help it.’ _

The woman hums, leaning forward on the edge of the stall with eyes that seem to wonder more than what she asks. 

She gestures for you to come closer and so you do, figuring that it’s not exactly proper to hold a conversation from a distance. It’s not as if you can feign disinterest or even unawareness of the conversation anymore.

“I’m a traveler,” you say at last in desperate hopes to set off on the right foot, stepping up beside Samilen and offering the woman your hand and name in the same breath. “Got a little lost getting here from Gridania, but I suppose I’m lucky enough to have run into Samilen here.”

She takes your hand with a smile, grip firm but not painful, and gestures towards herself with an almost trained motion.

“The name’s Edith Cater. I run this fine little establishment right here-” she knocks her knuckles against the surface of the wooden stall, then gestures to the small home behind her tucked against the cobblestone wall protecting the town. “-been sellin’ fish in Quarrymill for as long as I can remember. Y’might see my wife runnin’ around and cursing her luck at the fishes in the rivers--Svana is her name.”

The friendliness of the conversation is different from what you’ve grown used to, a difference that comes like a breath of fresh air after several stays of taking in nothing but fumes and smoke. 

Edith hums and, glances towards one of the nearest entrances to Quarrymill, her eyes laying firm on the guards switching their shifts on either end of the large archway of stone and wood.

“Couldn’t have gotten here quicker either.”

You see a motion from the corner of your eye as Samilen signs something to her--a question, given his confused look, but too quick for you to decipher plainly.

Edith crosses her arms against her chest.

“I’m surprised you haven’t noticed yet--them kedtraps have been gettin’ mighty ornery the past several suns. Makin’ it real hard for anyone past sunfall.” 

After a moment, the woman chuckles. “-Well, harder than usual. Not like they’re known fer’ bein’ nice.”

Your brows furrowed in confusion.

“Kedtraps?” the question rolls from you lips, too quick for your mind to wonder if it’s a stupid question. “I’ve never heard of something like that before.”

Samilen gestures for your attention, grabbing your gaze to fall upon him as he turns to face you, half-leaning against the stall.

_ ‘They’re a type of seedkin,’ _ he signs, looking pensive in his motions.  _ ‘Dangerous if you can’t avoid them. Very aggressive. And annoying.’ _

He repeats the last motion with a grave seriousness, then drops his hands with a sigh.

He sounds tired, as if the news had done enough to pull what little energy was left in his body. 

You got your answer as Samilen turns to Edith and purses his lips.

_ ‘I’ll take care of them in the morning, I might know what’s causing such a swell in their numbers.’ _

“I’m sure the guards’ll thank you for it plenty,” Edith says with a quirk to her smile. “I know it’s been makin’ it a challenge for anyone to get here safely coming from the West and South, Hurtin’ business something fierce for everyone.”

The sky has grown dark by this point, the sky dark and painted with stars that seemed to grow more bright by the breath. There would be little use to do anything now, leaving questions and curiosities best to be taken up again when the sun has risen.

“Is there any sort of inn around here?” you find yourself asking, caring little if it’s Edith or Samilen who has an answer for you. 

Edith as it turns out is the first to do so--and her answer is merely laughter. She chuckles with a hand over her mouth, obviously taken for surprise by her own amusement and tries her best to stifle it back down.

“Oh dear, I’m sorry--” she glances about the town, bustling with its array of people, many native and so few travelers. “--you picked the worst time for that. There is a little place across the way, just over by the Northern entrance, but it’s been full-up every night for the last couple weeks.”

You follow her gesture towards what you assume is the building she’s talking about. 

It’s small, easily missed if you weren’t already looking that way, and there are already several people hustling in and out of the front door. There’s a gentle billowing of smoke coming from the top of a chimney and the lights are already bright from inside.

It hardly looks as if it could room a dozen people.

You feel your heart fall into your stomach as you hurry away from both Edith and Samilen, only vaguely remembering to thank them for their time as you quickly move out of earshot to whatever they say after you.

It takes a few minutes to get through the small crowd of people bustled around the building but you eventually get inside.

The inn’s front room is neither spacious nor claustrophobic, but settled rather comfortably in the middle of the two. For being in a small settlement in the middle of the Black Shroud, it’s surprisingly well-kept; there’s a fire going in a fireplace against one wall and a collection of wooden chairs surrounding it. A rug decorates the floor beneath your feet in vibrant colors and designs that must have took a person weeks to make--perhaps even months.

At the center of it all lays a desk, a single elezen man manning it.

He has a book in-hand, a title you don’t recognize, and reads lazily over the pages with tired eyes behind messy brown hair. 

He looks at you as you approach. 

The gaze doesn’t last for more than a scant few moments, but it’s long enough that you almost feel...awkward. He looks you up and down before his eyes finally meet yours once more. 

You’re unsure if you need to say something first or if it can simply be assumed you’re here for a room--it doesn’t seem to matter either way as the man already interrupts any greeting you have with a sudden, distasteful tone.

“If you’re here for a room,” he says, finally looking back to his book. “I’m sad to say that there isn’t another one available; we’re booked up for the evening. You’ll have to look elsewhere.”

Your stomach twists at the words; he doesn’t sound sad at all, rather disinterested and eager to have you leave.

“There surely has to be something available.” There just has to be, you tell yourself. “Even the smallest room or just a bed, I have the gil to pay for--”

The sound of a finger tapping against the counter between you stops the words before they start tumbling from your lips.

“What part of ‘none available’ do you not understand?”

For a moment you stand there, silent, his of annoyance hanging over you even as he looks back to that stupid book in his hands. When you don’t immediately leave from both the front desk and his sight, the man even gestures a hand as if to wave you away.

“No loitering. Go find charity elsewhere.”

For a moment, you wonder if he can tell that you’re not from Gridania. Perhaps the worry is silly, perhaps it’s far-fetched to consider, but you have the inkling in the back of your mind that he’d have a far more positive response if you were perhaps someone else. Someone native to the area.

The hardest part is that you can’t tell for certain--at least in Gridania people were far more open about their discrimination so it was easy to tell in but a single conversation who was friendly and who was not.

Angry, biting words settle in the back of your throat at the thought. There are plenty of things that you can say to the man, plenty more you could argue about, but none of them really matter--the last thing that you want or need is to pick an argument with someone especially as you know there’s nothing to be won.

You turn on your heel to leave.

Before you have the time to take even one step, you’re stopped immediately by a pair of hands as they come to rest on your shoulders. You’re moments away from apologizing to whomever it is that you’ve nearly run into, but their familiar face stops the words before you speak them.

It’s Samilen standing in front of you, his hands warm over your shoulders and expression stoic and calm. You don’t recall him following you in your haste to get a room, but he looks at you with gentleness in his golden eyes.

_ Don’t leave, _ the expression seems to say.

So you don’t.

Samilen steps around you after a breath, approaching the front desk with a level of care in each step. He starts to sign silently just as you turn to watch the scene unfold. The man behind the desk seems more attentive to the miqo’te, actually setting down the book as he watches Samilen’s motions.

“Oh! Mr. Jawantal,” there’s an obvious shift in tone in the man’s voice as he regards Samilen. “Are you turning in for the evening? Sergeant Dreyeux said you’d be staying again tonight--said he needed to speak to you about a kedtrap issue as well, if you’d seek him out--the room of course is ready for you, as always.”

When Samilen doesn’t respond after a few long moments, the elezen finally seems to get the hint to glance over behind him--to see you still standing there. He blinks, a moment of confusion passing over his face as he looks back to Samilen.

“Did you...bring a guest?”

Samilen nods.

_ ‘They are with me,’  _ he signs, motions quick and almost too sharp to catch from behind him.  _ ‘I didn’t realize you treat some travelers like that. It seems I have more to talk to the Sergeant about than just the kedtrap problem.’ _

He lets a moment slip by in stillness, as if contemplating a thought before continuing the motion of his hands.

_ ‘...perhaps Quarrymill isn’t a place for me to frequent if you’re prone to discriminate others this much.’ _

“Sir, we don’t have room for just anyone to stay here,” there’s a stumble as he responds, his voice sounding weak and insincere in simply how sickly sweet it falls from his lips. “I’m charged with ensuring the rooms are available only to hard-working travelers and merchants who bring gil to Quarry-”

_ ‘So you mean to tell me you could tell that by only a glance?’ _

Samilen’s motions are growing a little forceful and jerky. You can almost feel the aggravation in even his silent accusation.

“I mean--Mr. Jawantal you must understand that they're  _simply_ not the sort we need at Quarrymill, they look-”

_ ‘I understand that I have not lived my life as a proud keeper miqo’te with constant discrimination from men like you-’  _ Samilen all but stabs a finger towards the man and, if you listened hard enough, you may even hear a low growl rumbling through the air.  _ ‘-to stand by and let you shame someone who is willing to work an honest job for an honest pay.’ _

“I don’t think you understand, sir, you’re much different than others.”

_ ‘Different?’  _

Samilen lets the word sit. Anger emanates in thick waves from the miqo’te; you can feel the tension in the air growing taut--the question only remains is if it will snap.

_ ‘...I forget some people choose to see me as equal only when I am useful to them. Thank you for reminding me of that fact so I may bring it up to Sergeant Dreyeux on the morrow.’ _

The room falls into a cold silence as Samilen’s hands finally fall to his sides. He lets it sit like that for a breath, letting everything sink in before finally motioning a simple question,

_ ‘Is there any available rooms or not?’ _

The elezen’s eyes break from the other’s gaze.

“No,” he says after a few moments. “They actually are all filled tonight.”

The way he says it confirms your suspicions of before, even if it means there’s nowhere for you to stay. You’re about to drop your gaze and leave the inn to move on to form a new plan of action when a motion from Samilen catches your eye, though it takes an extra second for your brain to make sure you read his words correctly.

_ ‘They’re staying with me tonight then--mark down for one more in my room.’ _

The rest of the following couple moments is a bit of a blur, as in one you’re standing in the front room with Samilen a few steps in front of you, and in the next he has his fingers wrapped around one of your wrists and gently tugging you behind him. 

The elezen at the front desk is saying something or another but you’re at a loss to hear the words--the blood thumping in your ears is loud enough to drown everything out that hasn’t already been numbed by the thick tension of the last few moments as Samilen had argued for you.

The rooms are located off to the left of the front desk, down a long and narrow hallway. There are doors lining up either side, with little numbers painted over the top of the entrance in dark script. The two of you step past all of the doors. Samilen instead moves to the last one, at the very end of the hallway, quickly opens it and gestures for you to go inside.

Whether it’s confusion or an instinctual need to follow the unspoken command, you step inside the room regardless. Samilen steps in behind you and closes the door with a click.

As the man takes a moment to close the door, you have the moment to take in the room itself.

It’s not a large space, certainly when compared to the room you had while in Gridania, but it’s not too small either; you have enough space to stretch out your arms at least three times over in both directions; a small cot sits in a corner of the room, covered in a weathered rucksack filled near-to-bursting with items you cannot guess. 

A bow also rests near the bed, coupled with a quiver that looks filled with arrows if the feathered tail-ends are anything to go by. (Was Samilen an archer?)

There’s a set of clothes hanging from what must be fishing line, and a pair of leather boots set with some semblance of care below them.

It’s a humble room, but one that looks lived in; as things would seem, Samilen has been here for several nights already--though if from the gist of the conversation he had with the elezen manning the front desk, that may not last for much longer.

...Speaking of, you slowly realize that Samilen has been very quiet behind you, not even having tried to tap at your shoulder or even moved from the doorway.

Fear starts to bubble up in your stomach from the man’s lack of movement or touch upon your shoulder, so you spin on your heel to get a look at the mute man’s face for some sort of understanding of his thoughts and--

He looks...terrified? Worried, more like, his expression tense and his eyes looking at nowhere in particular for a breath. 

He finally looks at you with a form of realization dawning on his face as the situation finally seems to sink in--the realization of what he’s done in but a haze of impulse upon witnessing your mistreatment and obvious need for aid.

The realization that he’s taken you to his own room in the inn and otherwise called you his guest for the evening.

And, in the span of a breath, he looks young. Unsure of himself.

_ Awkward. _

“I uh,” you start to say. “Thank....you? I think? Are you...letting me...stay….with you?”

Samilen himself in the moment is certainly no help to your confidence. His expression remains tensed and screwed up, as if he’s made some sort of mistake--he looks about ready to knock his head against the doorframe.

He eventually gathers himself up, closes his eyes and knits his brows together.

_ ‘Forgive me,’ _ he signs at last, looking exhausted in the motion. ‘ _ I…’ _

His motions pause as he searches for words.

_ ‘...you can stay with me for tonight. Take my bed.’ _

“And what about you?” 

_ ‘I’m no stranger to sleeping on a bedroll.’ _

You can’t help but narrow your eyes at him, brows tight and expression bouncing between confused and angered by the suggestion.

“This is your room!” the exclamation rings a little in your own ears. “I can’t sleep on the bed while you sleep on the floor!”

Samilen stares at you. His golden eyes have lost the enigma, they are now just the eyes of a nervous man, a man who looks from you to the bed, then back at you again.

_ ‘Ah,’ _ the word rings more on his face than in his hands.  _ ‘I see, I forgot that might be uncomfortable for you.’  _

He takes a moment to reassess the situation, looking pensively around the room with one hand up to his chin in thought. 

And then, as if with a rapturous idea, his ears prick up and he signs,  _ ‘Then it’s settled: I’ll just sleep outside.’ _

You feel your face scrunch in confusion even stronger than before.

“What?” the question tumbles from your lips before you can stop it. “How is that any better? Why would you sleep outside?”

_ ‘I was under the impression that you were uncomfortable with me sleeping in here with you.’ _

It’s as if he’s unsure what to do, and barely able to hide that insecurity from sight, if going by how it’s painted across his face. 

“If this bothers you, why did you do that for me?”

Samilen blinks and then, after a moment, he finally looks assured of himself again, perhaps even a little curious at being asked the question itself--the same man you met before.

_ ‘Because I couldn’t stand and watch that happen to you.’ _

He pauses, and for a moment you’re curious if there’s a soft flush of color darkening his cheeks.

_ ‘...I got caught up in the moment and I apologize. I don’t….normally…invite people…..here. With me. Ever.’ _

Each word is signed with a pause between them, a trailing sentence that Samilen doesn’t seem to know the end of. He lets his hands fall to his sides as he sighs, finally collecting himself from the moment and all of the confusion that came with it.

For all of the oddity of the last few minutes, you find it rather endearing; he holds onto that stoic mask rather well, but it’s obvious that few people seem to be able to get past it. The two of you stand in silence, waiting for the other to come up with something to say.

You’re the one who eventually breaks it, hoping to turn the situation into something better.

“I did want to thank you for helping me get to Quarrymill,” you say at last, feeling a soft smile on your lips. “I don’t know what I would have done if I was still out in the Black Shroud after nightfall.”

Samilen mirrors the smile, only then remembering to make himself comfortable; he removes the axe hanging off his back, tucking the leather strap and holder onto a hook near the door. His top, revealed to be a jacket, follows it--he’s left wearing a simple hempen undershirt that hugs his upper body more, but not to a level that you feel uncomfortable in it.

_ ‘You don’t need to thank me,’ _ Samilen signs before stepping over to the bed to remove the rucksack. He turns to you and gestures towards it--you can sit down.  _ ‘Consider it repaid by helping me carry that net here.’ _

You take the offer after a moment, feeling the cot dip beneath your weight.

“Well, I’m still in your debt now--” your hand gesture around you. “How much does one of these rooms cost? I can pay you for this, just name a price and I’ll-”

Samilen waves his hands furiously in rejection as he finds an empty spot on the floor to sit. The offer earns a brief but strong look of disgust from him, the very notion off putting.

“Are you sure? I can give you-”

He still shakes his head.

_ ‘I did this out of kindness alone, impulsive as it was. I’m not….good...with people like this, I’m sorry if it makes you uncomfortable,’ _ Samilen sighs and runs one of his hands through his hair, pulling out the tie holding the braid together so that it falls unbound over one of his shoulders. 

“I’m...not uncomfortable,” you speak gently. “I’m just...confused? I’m not quite used to people sticking their neck out for me like this.”

If anything, Edith’s kindness was enough to surprise you. For Samilen to stand up for you AND then let you stay in his inn room? That was beyond surprising--that was downright  _ confusing _ , as if the kindness was far beyond what your mind can handle.

Samilen shrugs, looking young and awkward again, as if he truly doesn’t know how to account for the warmth of his action other than something he just….did.

_ ‘I guess I’m used to my people being discriminated too,’ _ he finally signs, finally gesturing towards himself.  _ ‘Miqo’te aren’t native to Eorzea; it wasn’t long ago that we were seen as beast tribes. The Keepers especially are still often seen as poachers and leeches in Gridania.’ _

It explains a lot. His words. Where you had seen his actions as simple kindness, you can see it now as something more--a kinship, in a way, someone who can empathize with the hardships of being seen as an outsider. 

_ ‘I’m a really talented crafter in Gridania and I’ve done a lot for the botanists’ guild but...sometimes I wonder if that’s the only reason they treat me equally. Because I’m useful.’ _

It’s in that moment that you see Samilen for who he is, even if it’s only a glance. Even if it’s just a snippet, you feel warmth blossom in your belly at the chance to know someone in a place still so foreign and scary.

It’s comforting.

But, as the silence rolls on from there, it does give you a few moments to ponder over the situation. 

“You said you were going to take care of that kedtrap problem tomorrow, correct?”

Samilen perks at the question, though flashes you a confused look.

You smile and feel confidence grow as you speak, hoping that the idea doesn’t come across as fantastical or silly than how it sounds in your head.

“Do you need any help in that? I am looking to get familiar with the area and well, I see it only appropriate to offer my hands however you need them in the endeavor.”

Samilen’s eyes start to narrow and his hands move in what you assume is already a rejection--most likely, as you’ve seen, because he doesn’t want you to offer out of a feeling of obligation or debt.

You don’t give him a moment to say much, as you are quick to remind him his own words.

“I am looking for honest work for honest pay, after all.”

That seems to get his attention.

_ ‘...what are you suggesting?’ _

“I help you out with the issue tomorrow and you pay me for that help,” you say, hands starting to fiddle with themselves in a growing worry. “And, y’know, if there’s other tasks you need help in, then you certainly know someone who’s happy to help you with them--for a price.”

Samilen doesn’t look like the type of man to take people’s debt. It’s only at the mention of him paying you that he seems to consider it honestly, bringing a hand to his chin and letting the prospect roll around in his head.

You watch his expression shift. From stubborn denial to consideration, consideration to mulling, mulling finally to satisfaction--all of it within a couple seconds, ending with him glancing up at you with a quirked brow.

_ ‘If you’re willing to learn some new things along the way--because the jobs I take aren’t always easy--’ _

“I get the feeling few things you do are all that easy.”

_ ‘--then consider it a deal. I’ll pay you to work for me until you decide to find work elsewhere.’ _

The two of you exchange soft smiles as the situation seems to fall nicely into place. There may be loose ends and people to deal with, but at least the air isn’t awkward and your worries uncomforted. Samilen and you speak together late into the night, bouncing casually from one topic of conversation to another--awkwardness, if any, becomes something endearing of him.

It’s not a perfect start to your new lifetime in Eorzea, but it’s certainly more than what you’ve ever expected to find.

Because as it so happens, this is not just how you find work or even how you and Samilen meet as employer and employee. No, it’s more than simply that:

It’s how the two of you become friends.


End file.
